


Winner Bakes It All

by akaparalian



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Baking, Christmas Cookies, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some truly, uniquely incredible smells coming from the Haus kitchen; in fact, more even than that, there are <i>baking</i> smells coming from the Haus kitchen. This, in and of itself, is far from unusual three semesters into one Eric Bittle's tenure as the unofficial bakemeister of Samwell Hockey. In fact, on such a lovely Sunday afternoon in early December, it might even be expected. Really, there's no cause for alarm.</p>
<p>Except for the fact that Bitty's not <i>here</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winner Bakes It All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cimila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimila/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Amy! I hope you enjoy this; I had a lot of fun writing it!!!! Plus, I got to make a baking pun in the title, so really, this is the very definition of a win-win situation, I'd say. :)

There are some truly, uniquely incredible smells coming from the Haus kitchen; in fact, more even than that, there are _baking_ smells coming from the Haus kitchen. This, in and of itself, is far from unusual three semesters into one Eric Bittle's tenure as the unofficial bakemeister of Samwell Hockey. In fact, on such a lovely Sunday afternoon in early December, it might even be expected. Really, there's no cause for alarm.  
Except for the fact that Bitty's not _here_. He's practically locked himself in the library, at the mercy of oncoming exams, and there's been no baking for -- well, for days. So there _shouldn't_ be anyone filling the Haus with such delectable smells as they have all become accustomed to. It's not right. It's not natural. 

It's a mystery, and Shitty might not have any idea what's going on, but he's sure as hell going to find out.

It only takes about five minutes from the time the good smells start happening for Ransom and Holster to come tumbling into his room, wide-eyed, but by that time Shitty's already got a plan.

Well. Most of a plan. He'd have the whole thing if Lardo were here, he's sure, but she's studying, too. Fucker.

"Shitty," Ransom stage-whispers as Holster nervously keeps watch from the doorway, looking like he wishes this room had a locking door even more than he normally does (God, a bro gets caught having sex _one_ or _two_ or _seven_ times because his door doesn't lock and he always forgets to leave a sock on the handle or something and no one ever lets him live it down). "Shitty, _there's someone in the Haus_."

"I know, buddy," Shitty says soothingly, using what he secretly likes to call his calming-down-the-nervous-frogs voice. Rans may not be a frog, but hell, it still works. "I'm working on it."

"What do you mean, _working on it_?" Holster says from the doorway, loud enough that Ransom shushes him hastily. He winces apologetically, then repeats in a much quieter voice, "What do you mean, _working on it_?"

"I mean," Shitty says gamely, "I'm gonna go down and check."

He's just going to assume that the wounded, terrified noise that Ransom makes - not really the kind of sound one usually expects to hear coming out of a two-hundred-plus-ish pound collegiate athlete, much less a d-man, wow - has more to do with the ever-looming approach of midterms than anything else. Failing to assume that would mean acknowledging it in a real sort of way, and Shitty's just not up for that right now. For God's sake, it had half-sounded like a sex noise, and not in a good way.

"You can't just _go down there_ ," Ransom and Holster hiss at basically the exact same time, which is actually - really creepy, when they're looking at you this intensely. Fuck, but Shitty hates how weird they all get during exam season. 

"What if it's, like, an intruder?" Holster asks, brow furrowed. "Or a _ghost_. What if it's one of the ghosts, Shits?"

"Yeah," Ransom seconds, before hastily adding, "Except not because those ghosts still aren't real, okay? But what if it's - what if it's a frat bro or some rando or something and they're just fuckin' around in our kitchen? _Then what?_ You can't go down there, Shitty."

Holster's nodding rapidly. "We should wait until Jack gets home," he says, and at that Ransom joins in on the pell-mell nodding.

Shitty absolutely does not get paid enough for this. Well - Shitty doesn't get paid at all. But even if he did, he's pretty damn sure it wouldn't be anywhere _near_ enough to deal with this kind of shit.

"Guys, come on, that's ridiculous," he says, still with the frog-calming voice. "Like even for you, that's ridiculous. That's the kind of shit you usually don't start coming up with until after a couple of kegsters. I'm not going to wait for Jack to get home, I'm perfectly capable of going downstairs to check shit out by myself."

He gives them two beats in which to stare at him with horrified, betrayed looks on their faces before he grins and reveals the plan he still wishes Lardo were here to help him perfect. "Besides," he says, brandishing an old stick he had in the closet with as many sharp things as he could find duct-taped onto the end. "I'm bringing this."

That cheers them up considerably.

They still insist on "covering him" - or, in other words, standing at the top of the stairwell and flashing him a thumbs up while he slowly, silently (well... _mostly_ silently. It isn't his fucking fault that the Haus is a little old and more than a few of the floorboards creak, okay) creeps towards the kitchen.

Much as he might have scoffed and Ransom and Holster's worry, he does hesitate for a solid five seconds on the other side of the wall, closing his eyes and concentrating on just breathing in those crazy-good smells and listening to the quiet scuff of socked feet on the floorboards, so different from Bittle's usual dancing around and singing and cheerfully talking to his fucking appliances. It just isn't right, Shitty thinks, outraged, some mysterious stranger thinking it's okay to invade not only the sacred Haus, but the _kitchen_ , Bittle's special place. Shitty's just glad the poor kid isn't actually around to witness his haven being disgraced. Honestly. The nerve of some assholes.

Then he jumps around the corner, brandishing his makeshift weapon and yelling, "All right, dickweed, hands where I can see -- _Jack?_ "

"Jesus _Christ_ , Shitty!" Jack's yelling, startled, at the same time, and he's got -- holy God, he has got _flour_ in his goddamn _hair_ , what fresh hell is this, what has Shitty done _wrong_ in his life--

"Oh my God, who are you and what have you done with Jack, you sick motherfucker," Shitty says, voice as low and intense as he can make it, because there is no way, okay, no way in heaven or hell that that's really Jack Zimmerman, with flour in his hair and something that's probably batter all over his hands and a face that's looking about like a tomato, _baking_ , in the Haus kitchen.

At least, he amends mentally, there's no way he's doing it without Bits somehow involved.

"What the hell are you _talking_ about?" Not-Jack says, and, wow, he's got Jack's angry captain voice down pretty well, that's impressive. "Of course it's me, you idiot. Put that thing down before you hurt yourself," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

"There's no way," Shitty says shortly, though he recognizes the wisdom in the advice to put down his sharp and pointy thing while the utter shock and betrayal of this situation have his reflexes dulled. "I'm pretty sure Jack doesn't even know what an oven is _for_."

"Oh come on," Not-Jack bites back at him. "That's such crap, I helped you make those brownies that time, remember?"

...That's a good point, actually. Those had been some damn good brownies, especially before Jack figured out the whole sum of their ingredients and was eagerly trying to eat the whole pan -- something they had to prevent because, as hilarious as it would be to see him _truly_ stoned out of his mind in the short-term, Shitty's not actually that much of an asshole. When a dude has a history of substance problems, you don't let him accidentally imbibe things he doesn't know he's imbibing. Simple.

"Okay, you have a point there," Shitty says. "But if you were really Jack, you'd have a pretty damn good explanation for this. So let's hear it." He considers brandishing his incredible homemade weapon again for emphasis, but, in a somewhat unusual display of common sense, decides against it.

If possible, Not-Jack -- Maybe-Jack? Okay, _fine_ , Probaby-Jack, as hard as it is for Shitty to reconcile that idea -- turns even redder, before mumbling something completely unintelligible and glaring down at whatever it is that he's making.

"You're gonna have to speak up, bro," Shitty informs him, and wow, that is a truly legendary scowl. Yep, okay, that's Jack.

"I _said_ ," Jack snaps, "they're for Bittle, okay?"

Silence. Dead fucking silence. A solid three seconds of it, anyway, before Shitty _coos_.

"Jack. Jack, Jack, Jack," he sing-songs, dropping his weapon altogether and making his way toward the counter in order to take Jack's face in his hands and stare soulfully into his eyes. "Are you _feelings_ baking? Bro, why didn't you _tell_ me? I'm hurt?"

"Oh my God, you're such an asshole, shut up," Jack growls, but he doesn't actually deny it before he turns around, red from the tips of his ears until the neckline of his shirt -- and presumably beyond, but Shitty's not going to check. That, apparently, should be Bitty's job from now on. 

"Rans! Holster!" Shitty calls over his shoulder. "It's okay to come out now, it's just Jack. He's baking out his _feelings_."

"Holy shit, _Jack_?" Holster yells back, just as Ransom yelps, "Holy shit, _feelings_?" There's the sound of a mad scramble as they both make it down the stairs and into the kitchen in record time, Jack glaring at Shitty all the while and Shitty smiling back at him beatifically.

"Here's the deal," he tells Ransom and Holster as they come skidding into the room, their eyes practically bugging out of their skulls; Shitty watches as the train of thought progresses from ' _Jack?_ ' to 'Oh my God, Jack _baking_?' to '...is that fucking _flour_ in his hair?' Clapping them each on the shoulder, he stares one and then the other in the eye, making sure he has their complete attention -- or as much of it as he's going to get given the situation, anyway -- before he imparts upon them their marching orders. "Jack isn't going to admit it, but he totally needs our help with something. And it is our sacred duty to help a bro when he needs help, whether he knows it or not, am I not right?" He's gratified when they both nod immediately and firmly, their faces steeling over with something resembling a sense of duty.

"Excellent," Shitty tells them. "This is what we're going to do."

\---

"Hello!" Bitty calls as he nudges the front door open with one hip, tired and in some sort of strange caffeine crash-induced hangover-like state and having spent at least two nights in a row (possibly more; the fact that he doesn't actually know should probably scare him more than it does) in a combination of libraries and study groups in other people's dorm rooms and all-night coffeeshops but _unbelievably_ happy that it's all over. "I'm sure you'll all be glad to know I'm not actually dead!"

The strangest thing happens: no one yells back at him. He frowns, taking off his coat and hanging it by the door. That's the kind of thing that usually draws a few exhausted cheers this time of the year, especially considering that his return means the return of regular meals that aren't in any way related to A) Top Ramen, B) pizza, or C) the dining hall and its completely questionable assortment of mystery meats, and he's pretty sure he shouldn't be the only one here right now, but whatever. Maybe they've all passed out asleep, having vanquished their midterms in much the same way he's vanquished his. Wouldn't be the first time. Shrugging, he moves toward the kitchen, all too ready to get his hands back on some sort of home-made food.

He gets no farther than slinging his bag down on the table and rubbing his hands together, ready to get going on some post-exams stress-relief Christmas baking, when he sees The Plate.

It really deserves capital letters, he thinks. It's a very nice -- surprisingly nice, actually, given its location and, thus, the people most likely to have obtained and/or created it -- little decorative Christmas cookie platter, and arranged in a somewhat decent way on top of it are a batch of cookies that someone has clearly tried very, very hard on, because they look really nice, but not storebought, and he's well aware that no one else in this Haus is a naturally-inclined baker. 

" _Well_ ," he says with interest, crossing the floor to pick on up and slowly, carefully take a bite (after his first encounter with Shitty's brownies, he learned it was important to try just a very small bit first, and make note of any... unexpected flavors). To his relief, it tastes like perfectly normal gingerbread -- the soft, chewy kind, not the hard kind of gingerbread man fame, wonderfully spicy and still a little bit warm. 

He's so busy being surprised despite himself and happily eating the rest of it that he almost doesn't notice the note. Once he does, though, he realizes it's pretty hard not to; it's in bright red Sharpie, folded in half with "FOR BITS' EYES ONLY" on it in what's unmistakably Shitty's handwriting.

On the inside, it says:

_Bitty,_

_First of all, don't worry, bro, those cookies aren't from me. Second of all, you will not _believe_ who they are from, dude, I couldn't believe it myself at first, I thought aliens had abducted him and replaced him with a duplicate or something. Scary stuff. I'll give you a hint though: check your room! There's a surprise waiting up there for you!!!!_

_XOXOXOXO,_

_Shitty & the boys_

Below it, there's a crude reproduction of what he can only assume is himself, swooning in delight in front of a plate of cookies. Well. No one ever claimed Shits was an artist.

Still, now he's really, _really_ curious. That was probably the intended effect, but, hey, it worked, he's not ashamed to admit it. He puts the note back down on the counter, then reconsiders and tucks it in his pocket, before turning and heading for the stairs.

There's mistletoe hanging above his doorway -- a very hasty addition, if the gratuitous use of scotch tape is anything to go by. He almost knocks on the door, but it's his own damn room, that feels silly. So instead he just sort of… cautiously opens it, not sure what to expect.

Of course, he's completely unprepared for what he finds: Jack, sitting stiffly on the corner of the bed, with -- oh God, is that _flour_ in his _hair_?

He's not actually looking at the door, he's staring intently at the ground, but the soft creak when it opens makes him jump and turn around so fast he almost falls off the bed. It's -- completely unexpected, but endearing all the same.

They sort of stare at each other for a second, a million implied things running through the air between them -- Jack baked? Jack baked cookies? Jack baked cookies _for Bittle_? -- before, finally, Jack clears his throat.

"Merry Christmas?" he says, and it apparently comes out more like a question than he'd intended, because he repeats it a little more firmly: "Merry Christmas, Bittle." He hesitates for a moment, before adding, "Baking is, uh… harder than you make it look."

Bitty can't help it; he giggles a little, breathless, and watches the way Jack's face seems to relax just a little at the sound. "You did a good job," he assures him, smiling. "They're great, Jack. Thanks. Thank you so much."

They drift into silence for a moment, but it's gentler now, less tense. Eventually, looking almost like he'd rather his hand fell off, Jack pats the space beside him on the bed in invitation, and, smiling and with something unexpected and hopeful fluttering in his gut, Bitty obliges. 

"So, you had some help, huh?" he asks as he sits, and Jack doesn't say anything, just shoots him a questioning look. "Shitty left me a note," Bitty explains, and he groans, scrubbing one hand over his face in exasperation.

"Oh, so that's what they were doing," he says, then, "they said they wanted to help, and I figured -- as long as it didn't involve anything illegal, it was probably better to keep them occupied while I finished the cookies. Besides, they mysteriously cleared out about half an hour ago."

Bitty laughs, able to picture that remarkably well, actually. "Good call, Captain," he half-teases, and Jack flushes just a bit, in the tips of his ears, mostly. Well, that's… new, and kind of interesting.

"Look," Jack says, and the timing isn't particularly abrupt, but his tone sure is. "Bittle -- _Eric_ , I just. I wanted to tell you that I -- so I made those cookies, because I thought -- and you love baking, so I figured I could try it, and --"

Jack's stuttering, stumbling through chopped-off phrases and looking very much like he's trying to give a speech but he's dropped his notecards and can't remember what he was supposed to be speaking on, anyway. Bitty thinks it's probably a sign of just how far gone he is that he finds it all hopelessly endearing.

Instead of trying to get proper words out of Jack, or say any words himself, Bitty screws his eyes shut and, fervently hoping he isn't reading this wrong and before he can lose his nerve, leans forward to plant one right on him.

It's artless and imperfect and he sort of misses and ends up kissing more cheek than lips, but Jack goes so still it's like he's stopped breathing for a solid three seconds, before one hand comes up to gently, gently cup the back of Bitty's head and shift his face until their lips actually align, kissing him slowly and almost shyly.

He pulls back all too soon, and Bitty blinks his eyes open to discover that Jack's whole face is delightfully pink and there's a tiny, slightly bashful smile playing at his lips; he keeps trying to visibly restrain it, but it doesn't seem to want to go away.

"I take it the cookies were good, then," he says, his voice a little on the shaky side but also really, ridiculously happy.

Bitty just laughs. "Yes, Jack," he says, reaching over to squeeze the hand that's not still softly petting his hair. "The cookies were fantastic."

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr!](http://kon-centration.tumblr.com)
> 
> Happy Holidays, everybody!


End file.
